


Game Over

by Cesare



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Mind Control, Rape, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2010-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:59:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for an SGA Kinkmeme <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/sga_kinkmeme/3923.html?thread=714579#t714579">prompt</a> as a fixit sequel to another kinkmeme fill by another, anonymous writer. As commentfic, it's very ramshackle and loosely written.</p><p>Please note the warnings: this story is about mind control and rape and the fallout, and there is vigilante violence and mention of a past suicide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What games we play](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/1906) by Anonymous. 



Later, Rodney would be ashamed that his first reaction was jealousy, but in his defense, he didn't know the whole story then.

As the team stripped down for the guards on PHC-217, a "goodwill" gesture (though Rodney felt anything but goodwill) to prove they were unarmed, Rodney glanced at Sheppard's body. He tried not to ogle the man, but it was hard; John knew, after all, and he'd never so much as given Rodney a disapproving look after catching Rodney watching him. Just that usual irritating nonchalance.

This time, though, when Rodney's eyes swept down, he saw-- son of a _bitch._ Sheppard had a couple of fingernail scratches that started on his hip, raking back over his ass. The marks hadn't broken the skin, but the red lines were unmistakable.

There were fingertip-sized dark spots dotting his hips, too. And all right, it was incredibly invasive for Rodney to keep looking, but he was angry, and jealous, and he was _right,_ Sheppard had little red bruises just there, the inner curves of his asscrack. Rodney could almost visualize the thumbs holding him open and sliding inside, and he was furious at Sheppard, completely furious.

They dressed again, and Teyla resolved the misunderstanding that had landed Lorne's team in jail. They got their weapons back and the eight of them trudged back to the gate, Lorne joking about how Rodney probably would've loved the food in prison.

After the infirmary check and debriefing, Rodney followed John to his quarters, still too piqued to think better of it. John turned to see Rodney in his room, and put on his "buddy" face, eyebrows raised in friendly inquiry.

"I couldn't help but notice that you've changed your mind about having a relationship that falls outside the Uniform Code."

John's expression shifted to mild embarrassment and a little hint of a smile that (at the time, at the _time,_ before he knew) made Rodney want to throttle him. "Uh... yeah, about that. Look, I know I can trust you to keep a lid on it, right?"

And that just burned Rodney _more,_ because it was branded into his memory, what John said to him that night. _It's not that I don't trust you. But I can't take that kind of risk._

"I can't believe you. You kissed me back, you _grabbed my ass,_ and then you tried to tell me you'd never been with a guy? And all that garbage about how you couldn't risk losing Atlantis. And I bought it! You could have just said you didn't want _me,_ you dick. I can cope with rejection, I've had enough practice." Rodney crossed his arms tightly. "Who is it?"

"You know I can't tell you that," John said.

"You can at least tell me why," Rodney demanded. "Why him and not me?"

John looked troubled. "I can't talk about this."

"I'm not leaving until you answer me. Is he hot? When did it start, you owe me that much."

"I can't talk about this," John said again. Rodney was watching his face closely, hoping to see regret, hoping for another glimpse of the spark he swore he saw in John's eyes when Rodney kissed him, out of control after a week of no sleep and so grateful John hadn't died after all, riding the bomb Rodney built him.

Instead he saw-- John's face was placid, but Rodney had been watching John Sheppard for five years of cavalier shrugs and careless smirks. He knew how to read John's eyes at least enough to see this, _confusion_ in John's eyes. It didn't make any sense.

"Is he military?" Rodney asked slowly. John shook his head. "Science?" Rodney persisted, and John hesitated; Rodney jumped on it. "Who? Do you understand, this is going to drive me crazy until I figure out who it is, I won't be able to concentrate, I'll be looking at everyone thinking, what if it's him? If you trust me at all..." Rodney took a breath, hating it, but he had to say, "please. I have to know."

"I trust you," John said slowly, dully. "I just can't talk about this."

Rodney stepped even closer, looked up into his face. "Does he love you?"

"No," John said.

That hurt even more bitterly than he'd expected. John knew _Rodney_ did, Rodney had been strung out and stupid enough to say so. "Jesus. Is he at least good in bed?"

"No."

"Then why--"

John shook his head. Confusion and worry, now, in his eyes.

"Do you love him?"

"No," John said emphatically, almost before Rodney finished saying the words.

Rodney couldn't help it: years of frustration, years trying to be John's _buddy_ when he wanted more, all that time dating other people, trying to _move on_. He took the last step closer and kissed John, and even though he started in anger, John's mouth was so soft for him, a surprised little sound of longing in his throat. Rodney kissed him gently, their hands gravitating to each other, Rodney touching John's face with his fingertips, John cupping Rodney's shoulders.

It hurt to stop, to back away enough to say, "It should be me, John."

Later it would sicken him that he'd said that, considering. But at the time, he didn't know.

At the time, John said, "Yeah. I wish... yeah," sliding his arms around Rodney, still a pained, confused expression in his eyes.

"Then break up with him," said Rodney.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

"Tell me who it is and _I'll_ break it off."

A little huff of laughter. "That would be a little weird."

"I don't _care,"_ said Rodney. "Please just tell me. I'm going to find out who it is eventually, you know that. Atlantis tracks lifesigns, and it records all the patterns of movement to optimize power use according to traffic. We lock off access for privacy, but... I'm only human, here. I could do it without anyone knowing, easily. I'd hate myself for it, but I have to know."

That was when Rodney finally, finally realized something was very wrong, when John, who would normally recoil at an invasion of privacy unless there was a compelling reason to break it, kissed Rodney's face and put his lips to Rodney's ear and said, "Do that."

Rodney compiled the internal sensor data and read it like code, for faster analysis. To assuage his conscience, he stripped off all the names but John's, and tagged all other lifesigns by group, "Science" "Medical" "Military" "Support" and "Visitors."

It didn't take him long to spot that John was never alone in a private place with any scientist but Rodney himself. John had never confirmed it was a scientist, though; he'd only denied it was a member of the military.

But Rodney couldn't find anything in the logs showing John alone in private with anyone but medical personnel in the infirmary, and Rodney couldn't believe John would risk that, with all the monitoring equipment there.

But if it was a scientist, well, hopeless as many of Rodney's staff were, they could probably spoof sensor logs. They'd be idiots if they didn't, in fact.

Rodney pulled more data from each individual room's sensors, compiled it and referenced it against the citywide data, and wrote a little program to find discrepancies, and there it was. Once or twice a week for the last few months, citywide sensors showed John going into one of the private training rooms off the gym, while the training room itself sensed no life signs.

Meanwhile, a cleared but empty room in one of the lower levels, adjoined to a large space they used to store uncatalogued Ancient technology, sensed three life signs that weren't in the citywide sensor logs.

Three lifesigns. Rodney supposed it could be John, John's boyfriend, and a very faithful friend acting as a lookout, but there was a chill crawling through him that suspected otherwise.

Rodney restored the full identifiers to the lifesigns in that room. Karl Langdon and Eric Ephram. He pulled up their files and scanned them.

Langdon and Ephram were typical of the completely boring scientists that the SGC dumped on Rodney regularly. They'd been exceptional up and comers in physics; then they were recruited into the Stargate program, where they learned just how devastatingly wrong all their bleeding-edge theorizing was. Subsequently, they'd achieved bare minimum competence in _real_ physics, and memorized enough about Ancient tech to suffice as spare hands on Atlantis. But nothing more.

Some people, no matter how nominally intelligent, couldn't integrate the drastically expanded information from the Stargate program into their cobbled-together view of the universe. They could do the work, but they couldn't understand what they knew deeply enough to be creative, to contribute substantially or further knowledge. They were just capable enough to fetch and carry, repair and change crystals, and feed themselves, but Rodney would never trust them with more.

He certainly didn't trust them alone with John Sheppard. Rodney grabbed his kit and went to find that room.

They were, of course, overconfident. The device was just sitting there, on a table next to a chair. No attempt to hide or even distract from it. There was nothing else in the room but a couple of benches and in the far corner, some Ancient furniture with the cushions pulled off and haphazardly piled.

Rodney wondered how long it had taken them to figure the device out. Probably more than the six minutes it took him, though granted, he had a head start, since he'd already jumped to the worst case scenario. He looked in the database, unsurprised to find no references to it, and trudged to the lab to crosscheck against the offline backups, which the deletions hadn't touched. A rehabilitation device for criminals. A rightthink device. Rodney was glad he'd gone numb. He hated throwing up in public.

Rodney compiled everything he'd found; it was evening by then, so he took it all to John's quarters, along with his emergency transponder, recoded into a panic button that would set off alarms if Rodney were so much as jostled roughly. Langdon and Ephram could have programmed John for anything with that device. He might go for Rodney's throat the second Rodney handed him the data.

Personally, Rodney would have programmed him to use a Wraith stunner on anyone who found out and then tip them off the pier. It was a miracle they hadn't had any suicides like that already. Rodney should have brought a stunner himself in case John's programming included a literal killswitch, but why bother when John could disarm him instantly anyway; he was stalling. He went in, the door opening at a wave of his hand.

"I think I found out what's been happening to you," he said.

It was easier to see the false front now as John stood, rolling his head on his neck easily. "What're you talking about?" he asked, a cute little squint, that smarmy little smile that people found so inexplicably charming. In the beginning, Rodney had found Sheppard totally resistible; he'd been actively repulsed by that complacent grin. And then he saw John really smile with genuine pleasure, and he was lost.

He was immune to this brand of bullshit from John, though, and this bullshit was apparently all that Langford and Ephram had thought they'd need to divert any questions.

Rodney put everything he'd discovered into John's hands. "Two scientists used an Ancient device on you. They've definitely used it to affect your memory, or at least your ability to talk about what you remember. Beyond that... I haven't looked beyond that. But the room where it happened recorded everything."

John looked down at the flash drives in his hands with consternation. "I'll look into it," he said. "Anything else?"

"We don't have to bring anyone else in on this. It can stay between just you and me. Or just the team. Or... I don't even have to look if you don't want," said Rodney. "You can see what happened, and you can decide what you want to do about it, and I'll help you. I don't have to... I don't need proof."

Sometimes when he felt unappreciated, Rodney would reflect that Atlantis was awfully lucky that Rodney had scruples, because Rodney could easily, easily take control of the city. The only person who could have stopped him would be John, whose command of Ancient technology and suicidal tactics might've been a match for Rodney's mastery of the city's systems.

They were even luckier, he realized now, that John was honorable, because for the same reasons only John might've stopped Rodney, Rodney would probably be the only person who could stop John... and Rodney wouldn't.

"Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing." The words were casual, but John's face was grim.

"Is that another pre-programmed response?" asked Rodney. He snatched the drives back. "If I turn my back, will you destroy these? Not that it matters, these aren't the only copies. How far does it go?"

John sucked in a breath and let it out harshly. "It's tricky. Now that we know what happened, there are weaknesses. I have to talk around it," he said carefully. "Rodney, we can't know how much I've been--"

He couldn't say that word, apparently, but Rodney could guess. "Compromised."

John nodded. "You need to see the tapes too. I might be... set up to lie."

"It's ridiculous that we still say _tapes,"_ Rodney complained irrelevantly. "I know I may occasionally come off as overly pessimistic, but in this case, I don't think it's unfounded: I really doubt that what's in these recordings is anything you're going to want other people to see."

"Probably not," said John. "Sit down and start from the earliest stuff you have."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Parts of the text are taken from [What games we play](http://sga-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2413.html?thread=148845#cmt148845) by an anonymous writer.

Rodney started the recording and then fumbled for the volume, swearing, until he realized John's headphones were plugged into the laptop and yanked them out.

"... so obviously our thoughts turned to brainwaves, because well; the strength of your gene? What the heck does that even mean?" On the screen, Langdon strapped the bulky helmet to John's head. "No. Clearly the difference must be in the way you steer your thoughts."

"Because 'steering your thoughts' is a much more scientific turn of phrase than 'the strength of the gene?'" Rodney scoffed without thinking. John glared at him and he subsided, watching.

"Honestly Colonel, it's just a scanner. We've tried it on lots of people." That was Ephram, chewing gum.

"Lots of people?"

"Lots of people." Ephram sighed. "Now can you think 'on,' so we can be done by lunch?"

"We've found data on the original inhabitants in the medical database. Now if my theories are correct your brainwaves should be an exact match to theirs."

"What?! No one's brainwaves are an exact match-- my god, they could have completely fried you with that thing, those idiots," Rodney railed, eyes popping. On the screen, John was activating the device.

Ephram: "Breathe normally. Holy shit. All lights are green. Is he...?"

Langdon. "Colonel, tell me something you never told anyone before? A secret."

John's recorded voice sounded faint and abstract. "Mommy killed herself. I told everyone there was a dog in the road, but she ran us into that tree on purpose."

Langdon. "That is just... incredibly fucked up. You really are under our complete control, aren't you?"

Ephram. "Make him stand on his head!"

Rodney stopped the recording. "Just that is a gross violation of ethics," he said. "Misuse of Ancient technology against another human being is the kind of thing that lands people in high-security prison, and using it on an officer to compel you to share intel, even if the secret they got out of you wasn't professional, would probably count as an act of treason. We can stop right here. We don't have to show anyone any more than that."

John didn't say anything. With a pang, Rodney realized that maybe John _couldn't_ say anything, that the programming wouldn't let him. But John lifted his hand and started the recording again.

"On your knees, handsome. You are going to show my friend Eric here such a good time... That's it, handsome. Suck him."

Rodney turned his face away, the images moving in the corner of his eye: John's mouth pursed around the pale nub of Ephram's erection, Langdon taking John's pants down and invading him with a finger.

Langdon stuck his wart of a dick into John and humped for all of thirty seconds before he came and pulled out. "You want his ass?"

"Yeah. Next time."

"Does your ass hurt, John?"

John in the recording sounded like a sleepwalker. "Yes."

"I want you to feel it, John. You're going to feel it and wonder about it. When you're in the shower you're going to reach back and touch yourself. Feel how loose your hole is. But John, you're not going to remember why your ass hurts. You're not going to talk about it or hint about it. You won't remember until the next time I want to use you. Do you understand?"

Rodney made it to the toilet in time, only just.

After emptying his guts and what felt like most of his circulatory system into the toilet, Rodney panted over the sink for a while, washing his mouth out over and over.

When he came back, John resumed playing the recording without saying a word. He'd paused it when Rodney left to puke, so Rodney didn't miss a moment as Langdon programmed John to answer questions about the marks on his body with evasions to the effect that he was seeing someone.

Rodney couldn't imagine what John had been feeling for the past, God, _months._ Langdon had given him contradictory orders: to tell people he'd been dating someone, but also, to register the damage to his body without knowing how it happened.

Every time John said he was seeing someone, he'd known he was lying, because Langdon hadn't bothered to plant new memories or tell John to believe what he was saying. John had known he was lying when he didn't want to lie, so he must have known something was terribly wrong, and all that time, he was helpless to communicate that to anyone.

"I am never going to listen to anyone who tells me to shut up ever again," Rodney said. "John, if you can answer honestly, do you want me to try to use the device to reverse the programming?"

John didn't speak, but he opened the text editor on the laptop and typed, _YES._

"Oh god. You can get around it this way?"

 _SOME._ John's hands hovered over the keys, but for long moments his fingers only twitched without touching the keys. Finally he tapped out, _MAYBE JUST TO ANSWER QUESTIONS._

"What do you want me to do here, John. Anything."

 _UNDO EVERYTHING. REVERSE IT ALL._

"You don't have to shout," Rodney muttered. "Look... are you sure you want to remember? You don't have to. We have all the evidence we'll ever need, if you want to have them prosecuted. You wouldn't have to testify. Or, you know, I could arrange a terrible accident in the room they've been using. We could shove them through the gate to what's left of Taranis. Or... that device was meant for criminals, maybe they should have a taste of it themselves."

 _NO. WE'RE GOING TO DO THIS RIGHT._ John's hands hesitated again. _AND I NEED TO KNOW._

"You can know what happened from watching the recording. You don't have to remember experiencing it. John, think. The fact that you don't remember it is the only mercy in this mess."

John turned in the chair and stared up at him. He had a hard, hurt look; Rodney remembered seeing the same look over the video feed when John had been tortured, when his stare into the camera silently commanded them not to give his tormentors what they wanted, no matter what.

"Right," Rodney realized. "You have to know."

John nodded shortly and turned back to the computer, pulling up another video file.

"You want me to make you remember it all _and_ we're going to watch?"

 _FOREWARNED, FOREARMED_ John typed, and hit play.

Rodney tried to view it analytically, with some detachment. Langdon was the instigator, but it became clear that Ephram was subtly goading him on by pretending to be unimpressed or disinterested to make Langdon up the ante. It was a dynamic Rodney was too familiar with from the many bullies he'd encountered throughout his schooling, and terrifyingly petty, considering the enormous monstrosity of what they were doing.

Ephram rolled his eyes and shrugged as Langdon gave detailed, elaborate instructions to improve the blowjob he was receiving, and practically yawned as Langdon pulled out to come on John's face. Ephram only rewarded Langdon with real attention when Langdon started forcing John to say lurid garbage lifted straight from degrading porn: _Fuck my face. I want it so bad. I'm a cockslut. I'm a fucktoy._

Worst was that Langdon coached John to get rid of the distant, somnambulant quality to his voice. By the time he was done, John really sounded like _himself_ when he said, for example, "Use my ass, I want you to rip me up with your big cock."

Rodney availed himself of the wastebasket a couple of times, but it was just retching now, nothing left to bring up. He wished he _could_ puke, he wished he could spew bile and stomach acid, burning up through his throat and his nose. It'd be better than watching this, hearing it.

Ephram lay back and directed John to prep himself and ride him. Langdon watched as Ephram got into it. Then Langdon positioned himself behind John and pushed him forward, lubing his dick and angling himself in.

"What the _fuck,"_ said Ephram.

"Come on, double anal? I've always wanted to do this."

"I haven't!"

"So just shut your eyes and feel how tight it makes that hot little hole," said Langdon. "So damn tight. Why don't you thank me, Colonel."

"Thank you."

"Don't you have anything else to say? Show some enthusiasm."

"Fuck me, give it to me harder," John recited, "I'm a whore, I'll do anything."

"I could shoot them," Rodney burst out. "I could just go find them right now and shoot them. In the kneecaps. We could come up with an excuse, fake some kind of nanite infection that made them a threat to the city, we could think something up."

John wrapped his hand around Rodney's wrist and squeezed, holding him there. He let go and typed, _NO. WORK ON THE DEVICE. COME FIND ME WHEN IT'S READY._

"Do you want anyone else there? Teyla, Ronon...? We should have a doctor on hand before we use it..."

 _NO ONE ELSE._

"--Okay," said Rodney, and fled to deal with the technology: something he understood.

Rodney mastered every nuance of the mind-altering device in no time. It turned out that a rage blackout was every bit as compelling as the threat of impending death, as far as its effect on his productivity.

He couldn't risk moving the device far without potentially alerting Langdon and Ephram, but Rodney would be damned if he'd restore John's memory of all that horror among the benches they'd bent him over and the cushions they'd put under their knees-- but not his-- when they used him. He moved the device into another empty room next door, and brought in different chairs, a different table. For once, physical exertion felt good and he would've welcomed more of it. If it weren't all evidence, he'd like to smash everything in the room where it happened.

Once the new room was set up, Rodney hesitated. A few new lines of code and a switched crystal, and he could render the device unable to restore John's memory. It would still reverse the programming, but it wouldn't take the memory blocks away. Or if he took a little more time, he could adapt it to restore the blocked memories, but alter them: so that John would remember the facts of what happened, but not how it felt to experience it.

He wanted to do it so badly that he actually started to write the code, even knowing John wouldn't want anything but the whole truth. All his self-control was devoted to not contacting Teyla and Ronon to tell them to find Langdon and Ephram and shove Teyla's sticks down their throats. And then give them massive doses of enzyme and let them go through withdrawal. And then let a Wraith feed on them. Todd could do it with finesse, a little at a time to prolong the suffering, over days. No, months-- exactly as many months as they'd been doing this to John.

Rodney woke himself up from his vengeful little fantasy and closed out the code without saving. As much as he wanted to spare John, if John found out, it would hurt him that Rodney hadn't respected his wishes. John was trusting him here, in the worst of circumstances. Rodney couldn't fail him, even to protect him.

Removing the programming and the blocks was even worse than Rodney anticipated. He brought John to the room he'd prepared and sat him down, had him put the helmet on-- Rodney couldn't stand to strap it on him like Langdon had-- and after ten seconds of pulsing light, John went utterly still.

Rodney had seen John Sheppard in more awful situations than he could stand to remember: genetically altered by insect DNA, tortured by Wraith feeding, beaten and injured countless times. But he'd never seen this. John looked defeated.

"I need a minute," John said roughly.

Rodney nodded too many times. "Of course. Right. I'll be out there. Right out by the door. On the other side of it."

Patience had never been Rodney's strong suit, but he waited outside the door for two hours, eyes fixed on the opposite wall, until John came out: already radioing Lorne, instructing him to dispatch a team to make the arrests, and then prepare to take over command.

Meting out intergalactic justice turned out to be an unbearable stupid grind. It was a good thing they had Woolsey on their side. Unbearable stupid grinds were his speciality.

The SGC responded to the Woolsey's initial, carefully worded report with an instruction to send Langdon, Ephram and John back on the Daedalus, because obviously, it would really be helpful for John to be inescapably trapped on a spaceship with the two shitpiles who'd tortured him. There weren't enough CO2 scrubbers in the universe to make their air fit for John to breathe.

Woolsey navigated them out of that one. John would gate back if his testimony was required, but otherwise he was staying put, going to his daily counseling sessions and... whatever else he was doing.

Rodney gathered that he'd essentially switched jobs with Lorne and was now doing all the military administration. Rodney managed to stop himself from making an unforgivable _So that's what it takes to make him do paperwork_ remark; he was deep into gallows humor territory now, just to get through the days, and he'd started to see the point of things he'd always dismissed before, like bantos rod lessons and firing range practice and primal scream therapy.

To forestall rumors, Woolsey issued a statement and, with John's approval, made available a relatively innocuous clip of video.

Relatively.

Langdon: "You know what I'd like to do? Make him beat the shit out of that fuck McKay. He could get away with it."

Ephram: "Oops, sorry! I got taken over by a crystal entity again."

Langdon: "No kidding. A crystal entity, that's straight out of Next Gen! They weren't even trying that time."

Ephram: "Hey, I want to take some time off; what's that? I'm out of leave? Well, in that case-- uh-oh, looks like I'm possessed by an alien consciousness! I'll probably get over it soon, see you in two weeks!"

Langdon: "Infected with retrovirus that compels me to steal a puddlejumper and go fuck space hookers. Wish you were here."

Ephram: "We should make him kick McKay's ass and then punch the shit out of Ronon. I'm so sick of that motherfucker looming around looking at me like he wants to peel me off his shoe. We should make him break his hand on Ronon's face. Two for one."

Langdon: "This skinny faggot probably couldn't even reach, let alone get a punch off. Jesus, look at him, I hate his smug fucking face. Hey, Colonel, next time you start flirting with a woman in the mess, you're going to trip over your own stupid feet and do a big pratfall in front of her. Hit yourself on something on the way down, too, give yourself a nice shiner. Make it look natural, now. Just a big stupid clumsy fall. You're going to do that for me, right?"

"Right," said John in the video.

"You're also going to sign off on our weapons research proposal. We don't have to get McKay's approval if we get a go-ahead from our fearless military leader, right?"

"Right."

"Good. And sign us out a puddlejumper, too, because I have a lot of research to do on the beach on P9D-823."

They actually high-fived each other. For some reason that was the part that burned in Rodney's mind while he fired over and over and over again into the targets on the firing range.

The day after the release of the video clip, Rodney was unsurprised to hear "Medical emergency in the brig" over the address system.

"Sorry, sirs," said Sergeant Gaffner. "Guess we shouldn't have put them in the same cell. Looks like they turned on each other."

"They did that to each other." Lorne didn't quite ask, more just invited her to continue, looking in on Langdon and Ephram's wrecked bodies.

"Yes sir, it appears they had a very fast and quiet fight while our backs were turned," she said with grim satisfaction. Rodney looked at the gloves on her hands-- scuffed a little, and so were Corporal Breault's-- and felt viciously glad.

When the medical team showed up, Jennifer said, "Gosh, you know, oddly enough all the Ancient tech in the infirmary is malfunctioning. We'll treat them and set the broken bones, but I'm afraid these two are probably going to have to heal the old-fashioned way, and I don't think we'll be able to keep any of this from scarring."

"Do what you can," said Woolsey.

In the end, Jennifer's conscience kicked in and she used the bone knitter and reflesher on them after all, and Woolsey put them in separate cells.

Rodney spent the night getting drunk with Teyla and Ronon, all three of them feeling cheated. None of them had gone near Langdon or Ephram, because they all knew John wouldn't want them to. He'd said he wanted justice, not revenge.

"What John wants is more important," Rodney reminded himself over and over, and he could see Teyla and Ronon doing the same.

The rest of the expedition didn't seem to feel that constraint. The next day their guards reported Langdon and Ephram each simultaneously banged their own heads bloody on the walls.

Woolsey doubled up the guards and put both men on suicide watch. When glass made it into their food two meals running, he disappeared into his office, and that evening they sent Langdon and Ephram through the gate back to Earth.

It was an unpopular decision, but Woolsey sent out another memo to the effect that it would be "better for all of us to put this matter behind us" in delicate wording that nevertheless communicated that he'd sent them away to get rid of the reminder for Colonel Sheppard's sake.

The angry muttering eased up. The SGC sent another psychologist. Rodney set down new rules for Ancient technology handling and tracking, but the fact was, he couldn't lock down the tech much harder without shutting down experimentation.

Anyway, everyone was hyper-paranoid about the monitoring facilities in all the public rooms now. Woolsey had to draft a new privacy policy and decided that in the future, accessing the logs would require a meeting to get approval from all senior staff.

Word came back that the SGC tribunal sentenced Langdon and Ephram to life in some ultra-classified ultra-secure hole somewhere.

At each new development, Rodney's knee-jerk internal reaction was _SHUT UP, WHO CARES, FUCK YOU_ , thrown right back to sullen teenage nihilism. Then he reminded himself that what John wanted was more important and went back to giving the puddlejumpers hyperdrives, because he hadn't seen John in weeks and he didn't know what John wanted anymore, but at one point, John had wanted that, and it was something Rodney could try to do.

And then one night he came to his quarters to find John waiting for him there.

Of course that was the day he'd made a breakthrough, or rather the day after he'd made a breakthrough and worked through the night, so he hadn't slept or showered in two days, he'd spilled thingloaf gravy on himself at lunch and coffee in the afternoon, and his socks hadn't even been clean when he originally put them on.

John stood, and they looked at each other for a minute, Rodney frozen-- it was the first thing that had happened in months that didn't make him want to howl and tear something up with both hands.

Finally John said, "It took me a while," and shrugged. Rodney geared up to engage his rusty John-to-English interpreter, expecting that he'd need to dredge the entire meaning of the visit from five words and a gesture. But miraculously, John added, "To get to where I could say something."

"Okay. That's okay. Obviously," Rodney said.

"So," John said, a false start, and "so," again, and a deep breath. "So that was the worst thing that ever happened to me. And you stopped it."

"It's not that much different from saving each others' lives. I uh, I think it was my turn."

"It feels different," John said. "Thank you doesn't really cut it in this kind of situation, but that's what I've got."

"Right, well, score one for pathetic jealousy, I guess," Rodney fumbled, and winced at himself.

"Come on," John scoffed gently, "it wasn't that. If I'd told you to back off, you would've backed off. You kept after it because you could tell something was wrong."

"No, no, I'd rather it wasn't that actually, because then I should've seen something was wrong _months_ before then..."

He could tell by the way John's jaw tensed that John must have thought of that too. Rodney wondered how much of his therapy was about what happened, and how much was about coping with the fact that no one noticed it happening for so long.

Son of a bitch, he'd said that out loud.

"There's some of that," said John. "There's... a lot of stuff's come up. Lately we've been talking about how... for a while I had some weird ideas. Like it happened because of," he sucked in his lower lip and raked it with his teeth, "because... it was like they could see," and now Rodney did need his John-to-English skills, as John tilted his shoulder toward Rodney in a gesture Rodney parsed as _that you wanted me_ , "and that's why they picked me."

"They picked you because it would only work with a strong expression of the ATA gene," Rodney frowned, trying to distract from the sinking feeling. If John had the idea that Rodney's feelings for him had _marked_ him somehow, Rodney didn't know how to even start handling that.

"Like I said, weird ideas." John squared himself up. "It was like it happened because of, of wanting to be with you, and also like if I had let myself-- if we had been-- then you would've known right away, it would've stopped. It... all got pretty complicated."

Rodney tried not to boggle at him outright, but he couldn't keep back a, "Wow, Dr. Ng is _good."_

"She is," John agreed, tiny hint of an ironic smile. It was gone too soon. "So that's why it's been a while. And it's going to take some time. I don't... expect anything."

"You can expect something," Rodney said, trying hard to be careful, but so relieved he thought he might drop. "You can expect anything. Whenever."

John looked down, another little smile, no irony this time. "Okay," he said, and jerked his thumb at the door, "I'm gonna..."

"Right. Yes."

"But I'll see you," John said, with determined emphasis.

"Any time," Rodney said, watching John go. "I'll see you."


	3. Epilogue 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this part contains betrayal in addition to rape. More notes, with spoilers, at the end; if you have any reservations about the content please check the notes before reading.

One hyperdrive-capable puddlejumper and a couple of giddy test flights later, John said, "Okay, I want to try this."

"Okay," said Rodney, slightly terrified.

They sat across the table from each other. John put the table and chairs in his room when he and Dr. Ng realized he was a lot more comfortable dealing with people now when he could keep a table between them. Rodney had found an Ancient dinette set for his room too, another for Teyla's room, for Ronon's, for Dr. Ng's office, the physics lab, and then he'd just started furnishing random areas just in case.

He put his hands out, palms facing up, relaxed and open.

"Okay," John said again, and slid his hands over Rodney's. It was the first time they'd really touched so deliberately since-- before.

Rodney kept still and let John hold on. John squeezed harder, almost painfully hard before he eased up, breathing too-steadily.

"Thanks," he said, letting go.

"No problem," Rodney answered. "Hey, I just remembered, I have to do something really quick. Just a second, okay?" He hopped up and opened a drawer, took out his emergency transponder and triggered it. The tone sequence was subaudible, but Rodney _felt_ it work: felt it all rushing back.

And he could see it work, too, when he turned around. John was frozen, eyes wide and panicked.

"One of the the nice things about being a genius is," Rodney said, "intelligence can make up for a lot of other shortcomings. You don't have to be a good liar if you're smart enough to make yourself believe what you're saying for as long as you need to say it."

John was already catching on, Rodney could see it in his eyes; John wasn't dumb, that was part of what made him so appealing.

Rodney took the seat across from John again. "I bet it meant a lot to you that I was so patient. And it was really sweet how therapy made you open up about your feelings. I think I enjoy that part even more now that I remember everything. Get rid of the table, John."

He was trying to fight, it was obvious, but John's body upended the table in response to the command.

"Get down on your knees and come here."

John slid to the floor and crawled to Rodney, kneeling up and putting his hands on Rodney's thighs.

"I can't believe you thought you could tell me no and get away with it," he said, carding his fingers through John's lush dark hair. "It was only a matter of time before I found a device like that helmet. And then it turns out you wanted me all along? Think of all the trouble you could've saved us both.

"I mean, don't think this has been easy for me. Even I can't control all the variables. I really wasn't sure anyone would believe Langdon and Ephram were dumb enough to molest you without setting up a surveillance jammer. But it all worked out. Arch up into it a little more when I touch you. That's it."

John pushed against his hand like a cat as Rodney stroked him. "Maybe someday, I'll use the device to make you forget that you don't want this." Rodney fisted a handful of John's hair. "But for now... I really love that you _know,_ John."

He traced John's lips and said, "Open," sliding his thumb into John's mouth. "You'd probably like to bite my finger off, right?" John glared up at him, a clear _yes,_ but he licked Rodney and sucked at him just like he'd been trained.

"Good. I've never been that turned on by inexperience. Let's see how well those two pawns of mine taught you what I like. Go on."

John unzipped Rodney and mouthed him through his boxers hungrily, fished out his erection and went down, taking him deep, throat fluttering around the head, his tongue tutored and clever on Rodney's shaft. He swallowed the first pulse when Rodney came, and then pulled off to let the rest of Rodney's come ribbon over his mouth and cheek, catching in his lashes and dripping down.

Rodney thumbed it away so that John could open both eyes and look up at him hopelessly while his mouth said, "I love it when you fuck my mouth, Rodney. I can't wait to do it again. I'm all yours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this whole story extemporaneously, and I impulsively tagged on an epilogue that doesn't make logical sense, but seemed to fit with the spirit of the kinkmeme prompt. It's a reversal of the fixit and makes Rodney the villain. The next and final part fixes that again.


	4. Epilogue 2

John woke with a jerk and looked around wildly: his own quarters, his own bed. Wheeling his legs out of his bunk, he gained his feet and paced, proving to himself that he wasn't frozen. He could move, he could speak, he could say out loud, "Not again."

He went to the mirror and watched himself move, watched his mouth form the words, "At least they're getting farther apart. It's been almost a month since the last one."

It wasn't enough, though. This one was pretty damn bad. It was worse when the nightmare started from a real moment; it felt like what had happened was inevitably bound to spread and corrupt every good thing that happened afterward. Like his whole life was tainted.

John fetched his Flip cam from the desk and screwed on the little tripod, sitting down to gaze into its open eye. He hit the little button and told the lens, "I had that dream again. But this is what's real. I'm making this _tape,_ Rodney; and when I watch it I'll know that _this_ is what really happened. It's..." he craned his neck. "just after 0200, I can say whatever I want, I can move around, I can push my surfboard over." He took the camera with him and let the lens watch him do just that. "I can tear down my poster," not easily, because he'd done this a couple of times already and taped it together again, but it ripped jaggedly when he kept pulling. "I can--" _knock the table over,_ he stopped short of saying, his gut cramping as the dream came back.

"I can," he hated the defeat he heard in his voice, "I can _say,_ something's wrong, I'm not dating anyone, I don't know why I'm lying about it, I don't know where these marks are coming from, I want an exam, I want an investigation--"

John stopped the camera and played back the video. There it was: real. It really happened. There was proof.

A little calmer, he went back through the camera's memory and found another video. He set it up next to the bed on the tripod, this time with the screen facing him instead of the lens, and he played the recording, watching the screen.

In the video, Rodney, the _real_ Rodney, said, "I convinced the SGC that the mind-altering device was both worthless and dangerous, since it only works on humans with the strongest known expressions of the ATA gene-- Colonel Sheppard, and possibly General O'Neill. It's been released as evidence in the case of, uh, the case involving its use, and returned to us for disposal with prejudice." He turned the camera toward John. "If you'll do the honors, Colonel."

"Hand me that hammer," said John onscreen, and before long, the device was a pile of scrap. The helmet was intact, though; John's hammer didn't even make a dent.

"Moving on," Rodney told the camera, and after a moment of black, the scene changed.

"P93-841, uninhabited and unlivable," said Rodney, holding the camera too close to his face. "Whoa, _how_ much C4 are you using?"

"As much as I damn well please," John answered, socking a too-large chunk inside the half-destroyed helmet.

"Yeah," Ronon approved. "Get it to go straight up. Good target practice."

Another flicker of the screen and it was shot of open landscape, empty sands. The camera turned, John holding it this time, looking into the lens and then panning over Rodney, crouching behind the jumper-- Rodney said defensively, "Just in case! You never know!"-- Ronon, his blaster charging up, a 9 mil in his other hand, and Teyla, her P-90 hanging from her shoulder, holding her bantos rods high.

"Fire in the hole," John said, and swung the camera around. Far off, an explosion blasted the device apart in a huge satisfying boom, and Ronon fired with both guns, shooting pieces out of the air like skeet.

Another flicker and the camera circled around a piece of the helmet, twisted and blackened, and drew back to show that this piece was the only recognizable part of the device that was left.

Teyla was picking through the wreckage, and the video followed to watch her gathering up all the little shards of crystals. She showed them to the camera, nothing but pieces held in her gloves, and then she took the pieces, put them on a large flat stone, and crushed them to powder with the butt of a bantos rod.

"And that," John said firmly to the camera, "is the end of that."

"I wish," John told his onscreen self, but the recording helped, and eventually he slept.

The next day, in therapy with Dr. Ng, John handed her his camera. She watched the video he'd made the night before, _I can say whatever I want, I can move around, I can push my surfboard over._

"What were you going to do when you stopped?" she asked.

"Push the table over," he said, "but that happened in the dream. It started from when... after the hyperdrive tests. And then it went bad."

"Bad?"

John hung his head, rolled his neck and cracked it. "I know what you're trying to say, but yeah, it was _bad,_ okay?"

"Okay," she said agreeably. "What happened in the dream, that was bad. And the dream was distressing. And it's natural to want those dreams to stop."

"But," he said.

"Mm," she encouraged.

"But there's a reason for it."

"Like a subconscious alarm system," said Dr. Ng. He wondered if he'd agree with half the stuff she said if she didn't have such a beautiful voice, as pretty as Teyla's, pitched at a soothing low key. "When you trust Rodney with more, lean on him more, somewhere inside, that self-protective urge wakes up and the alarm sounds. It tries to warn you that you're taking a risk, using the worst thing you can imagine happening. I don't have to tell you about hypervigilance."

"But you will," John smiled a little, still looking down. She always did, because even though he knew, he needed to hear it. Just like sometimes he said the same things over and over in these sessions, repeated her words, because he needed to hear himself say it.

At first he hadn't liked it. So many times during the assaults, he'd been directed to repeat all kinds of trash. His head was full of the sound of his own voice saying things that sickened him. Sometimes his mouth still felt bruised from the words.

But he knew the principle: he'd been programmed with words, he was counter-programming himself with new words. He couldn't say some of it in front of Dr. Ng yet, but in the shelter of his own bathroom, behind two sets of doors locked with the highest level of security Atlantis offered, sometimes the words came: _I'm in control. I don't have to do anything._ and _I didn't want it._ and loudest and most often, _No!_

And he learned to accept new words from Dr. Ng, too, telling him, _You didn't deserve to be abused for being gay, or for being closeted._ Telling him, You didn't deserve it for being in love, or for keeping it secret. You didn't deserve it for any reason. You didn't do anything wrong.

And telling him now, "Hypervigilance is like an allergy. You react in a painful way to something that registers as a threat. It's useless to hate the allergy, even if it's causing you pain in reaction to something that seems harmless. The allergy comes from your body protecting itself. This dream is the same. It's a way that your subconscious is trying to protect you."

That was his cue, but it was damn hard for John to say, "And that's okay."

"And that's okay," she repeated. "Because it's okay to protect yourself, John. You don't have to push. You're not on a timetable. There's no schedule. Rodney can wait. Everything can wait. It's okay to slow down."

"I'm not gettin' any younger," he joked weakly.

She smiled, but she didn't answer.

"Yeah, all right," John said. "I can slow down." He drew a breath, in, out, and admitted, "I'm not so good at slow."

"You're getting better," she said. "It's okay, John. You have time."

He needed to hear himself say that, maybe, most of all. "Yeah," he answered. "I have time."


End file.
